I Am Jack's Unquenched Lust
by NoxiousDreams
Summary: "A rush and a push and the land that we stand on is ours." Kurt Hummel has a certain penchant. Blaine Anderson understands.


You're walking away.

"Get out of here, you _freak_! I better not see you around here, or you bet I'll be _reporting_ your sorry ass to jail!"

Loud. It's fucking _loud_. He's always fucking loud. You turn around, drop your bags and give him a mock bow and grin in what you hope is a_ charming_ manner. He fucking hates it, he fucking _hates_ you. He snarls and _throws his shoe_ at your retreating figure.

Now you're suddenly _angry_.

You're walking away again. This time your crisp white shirt's wrinkled_. Stained._ Ugh, you hate the color red. _Fucking Tim_. Why'd he have to be so goddamn loud? You hate when you have to teach people _basic manners_. You hate it. But alas, you got to do it. Even if you're favorite shirt gets ruined in the process.

You're fucking awesome, you think. _An absolute fucking gentleman_. You wonder what changed in Tim. You wanted to keep him around a bit more you realize. He was _good_.

You'll miss the way his pretty lips would wrap willingly around your cock. Wet, warm and enthusiastic. His fucking perfect ass, always so goddamn tight. How the fuck was it always tight? You're fucking _pissed_. It's hard to find a good fuck in this city. Especially someone who gives you a fucking rent free home.

You're in a shit mood and you decide to pamper yourself. You take off your fucked shirt in a dark alley and put on one of favorite shirt. Well, it's _technically _Tim's, but, you know he won't be needing clothes anytime soon. You walk into the most expensive looking hotel and get yourself a fucking room. With Tim's money, but, well there's a _fee_ to learning good behavior.

The bellboy blushes at _one_ sight of you and you can't really blame him. You are_ stunning._ You wonder if it's your eyes, your legs or your lips. But, then again, everything about you is perfect. You think the bellboy's cute. But, it has been a _long day_ and you're fucking tired. Maybe tomorrow, you tell yourself.

_You're explosive. You're impulsive. You're a train wreck. You're fucking gorgeous._

The room is better than anything you've ever stayed in. The sheets are a pale, calming blue. Tim would say that about your eyes. He'd call his personal mirrors. Fucking _idiot._ Your eyes were _not_ fucking blue.

_Punch. Kick. Slam –_

You smile as you recall Tim's bloodied face as you pounded his sorry head into the fucking wall of his pretentious dining room. You also recall _fucking _him into that same wall.

Your dick being equally_ hard_ on both occasions.

_Fucking psycho._

You're stripped down to nothing but your socks when you open your bag to take out the stale, smelly shirt. You put it on as you lie down on the amazingly soft bed.

As you wrap your hands around your half hard cock, visions of the evening cloud your senses. With _every scream, every plea_ – your hand moves faster and you moan louder.

You come in no time. Sated, you slip into deep slumber.

An ardent knocking on the door wakes you up.

"Just a sec!"

You quickly strip the shirt off, shove it under the bed; pull out a bathrobe from the closet and half stumble towards the door.

You open the door to a _ravishing_ looking man and you have to _hold onto something_ because you don't trust your weak, trembling knees.

He smiles at you, shy and honest; looking at you through _long,_ fluttering eyelashes and fuck in that moment, you're a _goner._

"Room service, sir. Is this a good time?"

God, even his voice makes you shiver.

"Yea sure, come on in!"

You sit down sipping your tea, pretending to read your morning paper while you stare at the boy's constantly moving figure; his _delectable_ ass outlined in those rather offensive pants.

You gotta do _something_, you decide.

"I'm going for a bath." You announce as he turns around from where he's doing your bed and grins in acknowledgement.

It takes a millisecond for that grin to fade into complete astonishment as you drop down your robe and stand in _nothing_ but your boxers.

You smirk at the gaping boy, as you notice his eyes turn dark. Well, _definitely_ interested then.

You turn towards the bathroom and there's a deliberate, obvious sway in your walk as your hear a sharp swallow from behind you_. Bingo._

When you come out the shower, you're regretfully alone. The room's fucking clean and your eyes immediately go the bed and you wonder how Mr. Sweet Ass must have reacted to the _stiffness_ of the sheets.

You dress up in a fitted suit you've tailored yourself, spend a little extra time on your hair because well, there's an ass roaming around in the halls, that's just waiting to be fucked; and one thing's for sure – your dick should be the one in it.

You open the bedside drawer to collect your belongings and there a post it stuck right on your wallet.

**I've stored my number into your mobile.  
I'm hoping this wasn't too forward, and I'll be waiting for a call.  
I really couldn't leave the room without trying something.  
I mean, you're fucking beautiful.**

**- Blaine Anderson.**

You quickly grab your phone from the drawer and browse through the contacts as a shit-eating grin takes over your face.

Blaine. Blaine._ Blaine_.

You have to stop yourself from squealing as you hit the call button and slightly tut as Eric Prydz's _'Call On Me'_ greets you on the other side.

"Hello?"

"Umm, Blaine?"

"Yeah. You're the guy from Room 521, aren't you?"

"Yea, yea- how did you -?"

"I'm not forgetting your voice anytime soon. Or _anything_ about you for that matter. Umm, how about a name to go with all that? If you're okay, of course."

He's one _smooth_ motherfucker, you'll give him that.

"Kurt Hummel." You answer, a smile playing on your lips.

"Kurt." He repeats and holy shit, your name sounds _perfect _on his lips. "You free tonight? There's this fairly good band playing at one of the clubs downtown, I'd love to take you if it sounds like your scene?"

You hum in agreement. "Sure. I'd love to, Blaine."

"Great. Meet you in the lobby at around 7?"

"Yea, yea- okay. I'll see you then, Mr. Anderson."

There's a slight chuckle on the other end. "Bye, Kurt."

It starts off fairly innocent all through dinner. Blaine takes you to a fancy Italian place and you have to bite your tongue to not ask, _how_?

But _then_, you've both had _way too much_ to drink – both of you are wearing clothes too fucking tight – there's just _this fucking_ tension in the air, _choking you both._

You groan as he latches his lips onto your neck – _licking, sucking, and biting_. His hands stay firm on your ass, pulling you in and you moan evidently, _obscenely _as he grinds onto you. You're both rock hard and fuck you're going to come down your pants like a fucking _teenager_.

The fucking club is drowning in music but all you hear is him breathing, panting; impatient, _almost animalistic._

You fist your fingers into his shirt, pulling him impossibly close as if to _mold_ him into you.

"Get a room guys!"

Blaine laughs and pulls you out the club, his hands hot, _all over you_. There's just hormones and sex, and it's blinding you – just Blaine, _Blaine_ – fuck.

You're both tripping, giggling – you're_ high_ – possessed.

After what seems to be an _eternity,_ he's dragging you into an _apocalypse struck_ looking building, slamming keys into the first door you see, and he almost _throws_ you inside once it opens.

His tongue is heavy and wet and hot in your mouth, probing and exploring – _claiming_.

He's staring at you, eyes searching your face for _something_. Suddenly everything moves too quickly: you press further into him, your calloused hand around his hard, _thick _cock – you can fucking trace the _goddamn veins._

He moans into your mouth and your cock twitches violently_, painfully_ as you fist your fingers deep into his hair.

"Come on, sweetheart tell me … what is it that you need?" he whispers unlatching his hands from around you, his fingers fidgeting with your shirt buttons.

He's taking charge of the situation you think and well, that's a first. It's always been you pulling the strings, isn't it? You smirk and nibble roughly on his earlobe as he arches his neck to the side. "You, I want you. The question is how much are you willing to give?"

You kiss harder, more desperate – like on a drug – an addictive need.

Blaine's tearing apart his shirt and you can't help retract a bit, you _like _this shirt. But, the other boy just chuckles as he rips apart the shirt, swallowing your whine, crashing his mouth on yours.

"You want to know a secret, Kurt?"

You really_, really_ don't want to talk, cause Blaine's fingers are swift and steady on your chest – and holy shit – there is nothing hotter, you cannot think – again it's just – Blaine, Blaine and Blaine.

He twists a nipple and your scream fills each corner in the house. "God, Blaine – Wha-?"

"I _know_."

"Know what?"

He growls impatiently and bites your lip and shit – there's _that taste_ – copper, bitter – _enticing_. You can't help but reach your tongue out and lick– _and fuck_ – you're on fire.

"Blood fucking turns you on doesn't it?"

You can only whimper.

"Fuck, that's hot."

You're pushing him onto the sofa, tasting his skin; _pure flesh and sweat._ It all seems too much – too little, it's overwhelming yet not enough. It's driving you _crazy._

"I found the shirt. From under the bed. It's in my _fucking closet_, know that Kurt? Filling all my clothes with that scent – Is that even your blood? What'd you _do_ Kurt? Fuck –"

"Stop fucking _talking_. Just, just –"

"I want to fuck you –"he says, and you've never done this before, but, with _this _man – you're fucking okay – for the first time, you _want _this.

You get off him, and his brows furrow in confusion.

You just smirk. "I'm going to wait here, and start by myself, _alone_ – go in and wear the fucking shirt, the one you _can't shut up about_? Then come back and fuck – you have no idea how fucking _tight_ I am, Anderson – and I want your fucking fingers in me – me _riding _you – "

He cut you off, kisses you open mouthed and _dirty _and rushes towards the bedroom.

You stagger on the couch, stroking your _painfully_ hard dick – oh, you've never been this turned on –and, fuck isn't this _interesting_?

You're not the only _freak_ around – and someone's thrown you a bone, 'cause the other one's illegally hot – and fuck Blaine Anderson's going to be the _possible death of you._


End file.
